


Horizon Blue

by Synthtraitor



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - World War I, Angst, Blood and Gore, Historical Hetalia, Minor Character Death, Reader-Insert, Soldier!France, World War I, angst with a lukewarm ending, depictions of war, human!france, semi-accurate historical fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:12:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26050180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synthtraitor/pseuds/Synthtraitor
Summary: As French field medics and stretcher bearers in the Great War, your only purpose is to prolong human life, so why is it that you dream of memories no longer yours, and love Bonnefoy’s blue eyes with all your heart, when they are familiar and unfamiliar to you, still?
Relationships: France (Hetalia)/Reader, France (Hetalia)/You
Kudos: 7





	Horizon Blue

“Wake up,” commands a voice, rough from cigarettes.

You are in the cradle of fuzzy sleep. 

“It’s time. Wake up.”

In the pause between words, you sink into the soft comfort of your bedding. It smells of the front, but it does not smell of antiseptic, pus and rot - and for that you are thankful.

“I’ll never know how to sleep like that. I’m jealous,” another voice says, this one younger. It is full of the wistfulness of home.

Another voice. A saccharine laugh.

Suddenly, you’re being shook. “For god’s sake, wake up!”

You gasp and sit up, scrabbling at the wet grass beneath you as you’re yanked from sleep. “Huh-?” The hands holding your tunic drop you. 

A warm hand settles on your shoulder. “Quiet, friend. It is time for us to move up.” It is still dark out, black clouds roll like ocean waves in the sky above, but you can make out Bonnefoy’s face through the darkness. 

He is familiar to you in a way you cannot understand. Faintly, you recall pieces of your dream. He had been there with you, only he was different. The dream fades and settles into your mind like a memory. 

Bonnefoy had been wearing white, and his blonde hair fell around his shoulders in soft curls. He was smiling. His eyes were a bright blue, and the sky was the same color.

He had said something that made you smile. You could taste love in your mouth.

Behind you, activity in the dressing station is picking up once more as soldiers begin to wake and remember their terrible pain. It is a familiar noise, and though it brings no comfort, it grounds you firmly in this day. There is to be a dawn raid after the mutual bombardment. French infantrymen have been gathering in numbers at the front for some weeks now, and last night you ate real, honest-to-god meat.

The medics not partaking in the dawn raid are making their rounds swiftly, with morphia and careless exhaustion. You are glad not to be them, but you are not glad to be yourself either.

You sit for a moment, sleep-dazed and trying to sort your memories. You are near Bathelémont, the town sits in rubble and ruin just behind the French trenches. There is to be a push this morning to try and break the German line. You can’t get the taste of unfamiliar wine out of your mouth, of a life lived in a tiny farmhouse, of cows and of a child with Bonnefoy’s blue eyes. 

“Are you alright?” Chastain pauses from pulling on his gear. You glance up at your friend in surprise, not having realized you’d been staring at your hands for minutes now.

In the same moment, Archambault grunts. “Get ready.” The old man has too much personality for his own good. His friends refer to him as ‘Prince Archie’, but only behind his back.

You shake yourself from your stupor, embarrassment gripping you tight. You stand up, strip your bed, then prepare for the offensive by making sure you are properly stocked with your medical supplies. 

The world is loud, but the four of you are silent and solemn in the face of it. There is only the sound of fabric rustling as you wrestle with your belt straps, change out your socks and wrap your puttees tightly around your calves. You are preparing for bloody battle.

Chastain and Archambault wander off to sniff around for breakfast, usually not served before an offensive, but still available when one knows where to look. 

It is only you and Bonnefoy now in your makeshift camp. You’d decided the night previous to risk shellfire if it meant spending a night outside the haze of the dressing station, where the air was thick with all the smells and sounds of injured men. 

You kick at the remnants of dinner, thinking of how flavourful it had been, when your mind drifts back to your strange dream. “Bon, did you used to have your hair long?” you ask before you can think better of it.

Bonnefoy looks at you strangely. “No. Never.” 

You’re quiet for a moment before you say, “well, you should. I’d think it suits you.” 

* * *

You rally with the regular infantrymen at dawn. They stare at you and your red crosses as if they should be offended. Archambault hunches over on the firestep and lights a soggy cigarette after two tries. Next to him is the stretcher. 

Chastain sits in the tense silence without comment, next to Archambault. You are the last in line. You force yourself to exhale slowly. The sickly breeze rushes over your head from the direction of no man’s land, and you imagine the stench comes just as much from German fear as it does French. Do they know you’re coming? Are they waiting in that same, pallid-faced way you do when the hairs on your arm tell you that they are coming?

Further along the trench is Bonnefoy, who is practicing his English with the fresh-cut American troops. He is talking to a young soldier in particularly good spirits. The Americans have not been in the trenches long. They are fresh out of their homeland and brave in the way someone can be when the war has not touched them yet. 

Bonnefoy says something in halting English, and the soldier laughs, loudly and obnoxiously. It both grates and soothes the nerves. Archambault stares with dead-eyes at the trench wall opposite and offers you a cigarette, which you accept without comment because despite all his rough behaviour, he is not stingy.

This one lights easier than his. You try to let it quiet your rattling nerves. You never smoked before you shook hands with the front. Now you do as often as any soldier does.

For a moment, the front is still. The morning bombardment had paused an hour before, and still the latest conscripted soldiers look queasy as you wait for orders. You don’t bother talking to them or remembering their faces. There’s no point when the lives they live are like those of mayflies, brilliant one moment, gone the next. 

An older corporal grumbles. He is the closest regular infantryman to your group. He takes a long swig from his canteen, then wipes his chin with a dirty hand. The watered down wine stains his lips. 

“It’s bad luck having you lot out here with us,” he grunts accusingly. Nobody likes the idea of stretcher bearers already being on hand before the offensive has yet to begin. You’re sympathetic. It’s a grim reminder that command expects sacrifices.

Archambault sneers at him. They are two old dogs barking through a fence. “Rather bad luck than dead in fuckin’ no man’s land without us.” 

The younger recruits recoil. You and Chastain numbly watch their reaction, then Archambault and the corporal notice as well and decide to lay to bed whatever pent-up frustration they feel and save it for the Germans. Cowardice is contagious.

“Do you remember the sound of the chestnut trees from home?” Chastain says suddenly from beside you. His voice aches of the homesickness you spend most quiet moments trying to ignore.

“Hm?” You regard him for a long moment. You were schoolmates once, in the same year and class. When it came time for conscription, your names were drawn in different lots, months apart, but you both ended up in the same company. 

“The chestnut trees. Don’t you remember the line of them by the river? In the summer we used to sit there on the banks and listen to them in the wind.” 

You don’t think there’s much use thinking of home, it has always made the world seem too large, too impossible, but for as long as you have known him as he is now, Chastain has clung to those thoughts. “Do you remember in the fall, when we would pick chestnuts using our shirts like baskets?” 

Distantly, you hear Bonnefoy say something in English. You don’t know enough to understand it. There is much you don’t understand, not about your brothers-in-arms, not about the war, and not about the home you have left behind.

Your childhood is firmly behind the German front lines, occupied and shelled to hell. Thoughts of home lead to thoughts of your family, how they are getting on as refugees. They have said nothing of your dog. You wonder if they would have taken him with them. Probably not, but you convince yourself that they have.

A captain steps through the line of jumpy infantrymen. He is counting in his head. You watch his black boots pass along the duckboards. 

Further along in the trench, in the opposite direction of Bonnefoy and out of sight, someone drops a crate of something metal. It sounds nothing like a shell, but it is loud enough to make a new recruit cry out in fear. He begins to sob. You grit your teeth. Cowardice is contagious. He is quickly told to shut up by an older soldier. Thankfully, it ends there.

You take another drag of the cigarette, then realize you have not responded yet to Chastain. You look to him and find he has let the topic drop. Instead he is lighting a cigarette on the butt of Archambault’s. The two murmur back and forth of the techniques of amputation - Archambault insists he once saw a doctor take off two legs at once, a soldier on either side of him. 

Chastain attempts to argue the morality of Archambault’s scenario, but the older man is more interested in the efficiency of it all. 

Dawn is fast approaching. Before much more time has passed, the order to stand-at-attention is passed down by shouting captains, who sound as if they are angry with their soldiers. The trench erupts in motion. You, Archambault, and Chastain slip off the firestep with your equipment as a row of infantrymen take your place, crouched with rifles ready. Closely behind them waits the next wave, and so on. 

Bonnefoy returns to your side, and the four of you prepare to launch yourselves over the top with the infantrymen, only you will not be rushing the enemy, but rather carrying the many wounded back.

* * *

The French artillery lays off. No man’s land is quiet as it waits to receive its dead.

“ _Attaque!_ ”

With the command to attack the enemy, your heart ceases to beat on its own time. Instead, it is synchronised with the many footsteps of soldiers rushing headlong into war.

In the initial wave of attack, battle surges at the same time the world loses meaning. There is gunfire, and the smell of battle that glues itself to the roof of your mouth. The Germans shell the line once they catch wind of the raid. Loose earth flies overhead. You are crouched on the firestep, head just under the top of the trench, and you press yourself into the parapet as if it could comfort you. Seconds tick by. 

“ _Attaque_!”

Then comes the command for the second wave to go over the top. A trench-long battle cry pierces the sky and nearly drowns the chop and chatter of the German machine guns. Your body leaves your mind in the trench as it rushes over the top and into the mud, just behind Archambault and followed closely by Chastain and Bonnefoy. 

The barbed wire on both sides is always an obstacle. Your group is spread as your progress through the narrow channels between the barbed wire sections is slowed. When you are free of the defenses, Archambault, who is carrying the stretcher, is meters ahead of you. Bonnefoy is behind you still, and Chastain was swept farther along the trench by the rush of soldiers. 

Archambault quickly locates the first casualty of the day. He drops to his knees next to a soldier without legs. Even from this distance, you can tell they have been shelled off. 

The soldier is screaming and kicking with his stumps. You are wild and without sense as you rush to him, Bonnefoy, quick as a fox and on your heel. You forget in moments like these that he has only been at the front for a year. It feels like a lifetime ago you had a life without war, where you would sit under chestnut trees and try to make out your future in the clouds passing overhead. For you, it has been two years since you last saw home, and three since you left that first, fateful time.

Over the roar of the battlefield, there is the hollow howl of a shell, clearly audible over the rapid bursts of machine gun fire and general misery. You are still rushing towards the stretcher without thought when Archambault throws his body over the wounded soldier. You are too far, and too close. The whistle is loud. “Shit!” You throw yourself to the ground, Bonnefoy next to you. Just before you cover your face, you see Chastain dive into a shell crater opposite you. The filthy mud squelches underneath you. 

_BOM!_ The shell hits with an ear-splitting explosion. Shrapnel is sent flying in all directions, low and close to the ground - dangerous.

You attempt to sink deeper into the safety of the earth. You feel the mud wet your face and slick your hands. It smells of poison gas and rot. The world has no sense. Your ears ring.

“Fuck it all!” Chastain swears loudly. The ground is still shaking beneath you, but you push yourself quickly to stand. You scramble up to the frontline's newest crater. Bonnefoy slips beside you, and you grab his arm to keep him from falling, but end up catching yourself instead as you trip over a tree sunk into the mud. No man’s land is once more unrecognizable, blasted to all hell.

You find that Archambault is dead. So is the wounded soldier. Both are impaled by the same piece of shrapnel. There is a burst of machine gun fire. The movement of a shell rings loud in your ear, but not loud enough to be headed straight towards you. 

A soldier wails to your left, louder than the shell, and hope spreads like love through your chest when you hear how his voice is still strong. “Another, then!” Bonnefoy shouts. You rush to the stretcher and dump both Archambault and the soldier off of it, then the three of you run towards the wailing soldier, Chastain holding the front of the stretcher alone, while you and Bonnefoy follow. 

There only has to be one life saved to make this war worth it. You only have to bring one man back to the dressing station to convince yourself there is meaning in the world, that there is reason and order.

A shiver runs up your spine, and the three of you drop to the mud once more as bullets are sprayed around you in rapid bursts of gunfire. Bonnefoy begins to pray. You think of your home and the chestnut trees Chastain misses so dearly. 

A moment passes after the gunfire, then it starts up once more somewhere else along the line. The three of you shove yourselves up, ragged, and stumble on through the mud towards your wounded soldier. Your body moves, but still you’re convinced you are no longer seeing, hearing, or breathing.

You find the soldier in a waterlogged crater. His legs are under the waterline, but his top half is stuck to the muddy sidewall. He is covered in filth. You know him to be the American soldier Bonnefoy had been talking to before the raid. His uniform bleeds a dark, sickening red.

Chastain drops into the crater and you follow, slipping sideways on your feet down the slick wall towards the young man. Bonnefoy flattens himself and creeps to the edge beside the stretcher. 

“Come on, boy! You’re alright,” Chastain shouts as he tucks his hands under the soldier’s armpits and tries to pull him out of the crater. He bleeds more instead. You swear and slip closer to the water to check on his wounds.

“He’s bleeding out,” you inform Chastain as you grab the man’s breeches, dipping your hands just into the water, ignoring the disgust that shoots through you like lightning at the thought of what lies just beneath the surface. “The wound is decent. What was it, Howitzer shrapnel?” You pull hard when Chastain does. The young man wails into the bleeding dawn.

Chastain grunts. “Doesn’t matter.” You pull together again, and the American soldier slides up the wall. Chastain loses his grip on the uniform, then catches the shoulder straps of the American’s webbing. The young man’s voice is hoarse as he moans. His eyes are glazed over, pupils darting across your face without seeing. His uniform is a dark red. Chastain readjusts his feet, and you dig your toes into the soft mud. 

“Quickly now!” Bonnefoy rushes from the edge, reaching his body over to grab Chastain by his belt and haul him up, followed by the American and then finally, you. 

Bonnefoy drags the young man into the stretcher while you and Chastain go to the other end and prepare to heft it up. 

Another shell whistle. The Germans must be angry. It grows louder. Panic reaches you, then, like a friend calling you from a distance. You hunch over the wounded American’s head, shielding him with your torso as the shell hits with a knee-weakening _BOM!_

* * *

Bonnefoy fights viciously with the barbed wire when you return with the American to the trenches. You and Chastain try to bear the weight of the young man so Bonnefoy can make it through, but he continues to swear sharply anyways. 

When you reach the edge of the trench, Bonnefoy slows and you switch to be positioned in the front and beside him. Then you slip and slide back into the trench with the American on the stretcher. You let go entirely when both Bonnefoy and Chastain have their boots on the duckboards and begin to shove your way through the chaos. 

“Out of the way!” you shout at the wounded soldiers and officers alike. “Medic! Out of the way!” They part like they can’t help but follow the command. The battle continues to wreak confusion up and down the line. It will last for hours. 

You run the poor American though the trenches all the way to the dressing station situated near the rear of the system, where you’d spent the night. The soldiers stuck in beds are joined by wounded lying on the grass in rows, moaning and crying. You are numb to the racket. 

The boy is taken from your stretcher and laid out with the others. Bonnefoy folds the stretcher, then you turn heel and rush back to the front for the next casualty. 

You no longer breathe, you no longer blink, you no longer have thoughts. You do not understand. The only words passed between the three of you as you continue your grisly work are what is necessary. The heat of a bullet just missing your head is like the sun on your back.

When it comes time for the German counter-attack, you arm yourself with your entrenching tool and fight for your life like everyone churning up mud in this bloody battle. The war has no beginning and will have no end.

It is only when your small team is relieved that you realize Archambault, the old man, is no longer with you. He is among the dead delivered into the waiting embrace of no man’s land.

You sit at the foot of a tree and look to the grey sky. It holds no answers.

* * *

It is late in the afternoon.

The day of the raid marks two weeks spent at the front. When there is not a raid, you are orderlies walking the lines of sick and injured men, you are gravediggers disposing of the many dead, some blessed with coffins, some without, and you are (most often) soldiers sick of war. 

Now you are being relieved to hospital duty, where you are less likely to get shelled. Some part of you hates it even more than the front. In field hospitals, death isn’t unsure. It is a constant presence, slow and inevitable. The air reeks of antiseptic and rot. The day is chased by the moans of men haunted by home. It is a living purgatory for those waiting to die.

You climb into the back of the ambulance along with Bonnefoy, a soldier moaning with a bleeding head wound, and the American. The rumble of the front continues, even after you secure the doors shut.

Chastain is sitting up front making bets with the regular driver. They name surgeons and wager who will catch their wrath. Then they go on to name their favourite nuns. 

The soldier who is bleeding sits on the bench beside Bonnefoy and begins to whimper. The American is lying on the bench. You stare at him. You love him and you hate him. He is only a young boy. They should not be sending their children to fight, and yet they do. 

But you shouldn’t scorn the Americans, the French have done the same. They send their children to war, to fight battles that should not be fought. Children step out onto the battlefield and trip over barbed wire into their graves. 

The boy looks to be asleep. Bonnefoy sighs sadly. “He’s American. Just a young boy.” You don’t know if Bonnefoy means to say this aloud. “What a shame. It’s a shame. Such life, such love. I barely talked to him.” Chastain and the driver have stopped talking in the front. 

There is mud and pain on the boy’s bare face, and yet his eyes are closed. You stare at him. His blond hair is dirtied and stuck down to his feverish forehead. Blood wets his tunic, which sits open on his chest. The wound in his gut is wrapped tight with leaking bandages. 

“What is his name?” Chastain asks, and you look up to find him peering at the boy backwards, through the window.

“Alfred Jones.” Bonnefoy says. The boy seems to think he is being talked to, and blinks open his eyes. They are dazed, and they are blue.

“Jones,” Chastain tests the name in his mouth.

The boy mumbles something you do not understand. 

“He reminds me of my little cousin,” Chastain continues, “they have the same face.” 

Chastain turns in his seat and reaches through the window to place a hand on the boy’s cheek. He gives him a hardy shake. “You will live, Jones.”

Bonnefoy repeats what he’d said in english. 

Jones gives Chastain a brave smile. 

There is no reason in death. It is teased and drawn out, it is quick and without warning. You are a close acquaintance of death, because he walks alongside wherever a stretcher bearer goes.

Maybe, in another life, Chastain would have gotten his wish to once again hear the chestnut trees in the wind. You think he deserved at least that, or to see his family once more.

You do not hear the whistle of the shell, nor do you see it through the filthy windows of the ambulance, but you feel the impact as it rips you from the false safety you had begun to believe in.

The Germans are _angry_. Their bombardment has started early, and it is off its mark by some distance.

The very moment Chastain pulls his hand back through the window, there is a point-blank, deafening _BOM!_ And the ambulance is thrown off the road. 

The world is once more off-balanced, thrown into disarray. The front has caught up to you minutes after you have left it behind. Maybe field hospitals _are_ preferable. At least you’ll see your death clearly as you march towards it. 

Someone screams, or you all scream and the fear melts together in the heat of the shell’s impact. A battle cry. A small, fearful whimper. There is a loud crash. You see Bonnefoy, then you do not.

* * *

For a moment, you are sure your life has ended. There is nothing. You have no past; no future nor present. You are surprised, then filled with an emotion you do not recognize, when you realize that a part of you is glad for it - the relief.

You remember a home that is unfamiliar to you; Long, tall fields of grass and a wide-open, blue sky. There is a house. Another army marches.

Then you are being dragged out of what’s left of the ambulance by Bonnefoy. His face darkened with determination; his eyes betraying terror - they are a paler blue than the American’s, like the sky that hangs over your dreams. 

He sets you on the ground and spares you no second glance before disappearing out of sight. You try to make a sound to call him back, but cannot hear yourself. You are simply staring up at the charcoal sky, unable to speak, to think, to move - but you can breathe. 

So you breathe. Like a storm waiting on the horizon.

And so you blink your eyes and gasp for air. 

Putrid smoke burns your lungs on your first few inhales. It does not clear out, but becomes more manageable once you know what to expect. You greedily suck the rotten air into your lungs. You are glad for it. 

Bonnefoy has not returned, so you slow your breathing to soothe the panic and will yourself to move because you must. You are still close enough to the front lines for the German bombardment to shake the earth beneath you. Your gut tells you to fear another stray shell, so you must. Soldiers move, and so you must. 

* * *

Your body does not feel your own, as if your mind has been detached from your limbs. This is how you know you’ve been knocked flat. A concussion, you recognise immediately - And yet soldiers move, so you must. 

You force your fingers to curl into the torn earth. An uncomfortable sensation crawls up your arm and worms its way into your brain. You try and lift your arms, but they prove too heavy. Your legs are worse. You do not allow yourself to panic. Instead, you force a heavy breath out through your nose and grit your teeth. Your tongue lashes out at the backs of them, and the taste of iron floods your mouth.

Bonnefoy has not returned. Finally, you manage to twist your head to the side in search of him, and find Chastain staring back at you instead, empty-eyed and slack-jawed. He shows no sign of movement. He is laid out beside you. He is dead.

Your breath becomes more ragged. Bonnefoy startles you when he kneels beside you and turns your face to him. He squints into your eyes, mouth set in a firm line, then unbuckles your helmet and pulls it off along with your scarf. His fingers card through your filthy hair, pressing into your scalp, then he sets your head down on the ground and feels down your neck, shoulders, collar bone. 

With your helmet and scarf gone, the cold air washes over you. It is becoming easier to think. It is also becoming easier to feel pain. Your body aches all over. You suck in a sharp breath. “Bon.” 

“Can you walk?” You’re surprised when you hear his voice.

You nod. 

“Can you carry the stretcher?” 

Your arms beg for permission to give out as you push yourself up on your elbows. Pain flares in your neck, the tendons sore in a way that denotes whiplash. You groan loudly and Bonnefoy helps to push you up into a sitting position. 

Your arms are made of lead. The front rumbles with artillery. You drop a hand down to collect your scarf and helmet. You misjudge the distance and end up rapping your knuckles against the steel. “Yes.” 

Chastain is dead beside you. Chastain is dead beside you. He had always talked of returning home. You never wanted to think about it for fear of cowardice, deathly afraid that if you remembered what it was like, then you wouldn’t be able to make sense of how your life is now. You are still afraid. Cowardice is contagious.

Next to Chastain, the ambulance driver has been laid out to rest. 

Next to the ambulance driver is the soldier with the head wound. It is larger now. Fatal. 

Past them is the American. Alfred Jones. He is crying for his mother.

“The dressing station is gone,” Bonnefoy tells you, “but he needs treatment still.” 

You cough into your lap, curling around your helmet. Bonnefoy keeps a firm hand on your back. Your head is still swimming, your thoughts lethargic and unhelpful. “The whole thing?” 

“There-” he points down the road towards the front. There is a massive plume of smoke from where you just came from- “I ran part of the way back. There’s nothing left.” 

“My god,” you swear under your breath. It isn’t even dark yet and already the Germans are punishing you. It is wrath like thunder and lightning from the sky.

“Come on.” Bonnefoy urges you to your feet, and you stand, dazed, as he moves back towards the overturned ambulance. It’s chassis is like crumpled paper.

“Where are we going?” you call after him, stumbling backwards before catching yourself on a lazy leg. You stare once more at Chastain. He stares back. Emotion wells within you, and you drop to a knee to search his left breast pocket for his pay book, and remove a letter and two photographs as well.

“We must take him by foot,” Bonnefoy says of the American, pulling a stretcher from the back of the ambulance and walking back purposefully towards you. Quickly, you toss your scarf over your head and fasten your helmet before accepting two handholds of the stretcher.

“But - It’s too far to walk to the field hospital,” you argue as you are near-dragged behind Bonnefoy to keep hold of the stretcher.

He does not listen. “So we take him to the next dressing station.” 

“It is miles down the line!”

“So we press on!” Bonnefoy throws the stretcher down beside the American and drops to his knees to pull the boy’s tunic away from his stomach wound. He’s bled through his bandages. You don’t think he’ll even make it past the hour. 

A wave of grief washes over you as you watch the back of Bonnefoy’s head while he tries to calm the poor boy with morphia. He sticks a needle into the jar, but when he draws his thumb back, there is no morphia left. “I’m out,” he says, and you quickly pull out what you have left and hand it to him.

“Bon.” You nudge your friend, the exhaustion of it all finally settling into your bones. “There’s no point,” you plead hoarsley, “he’ll die before we can make it anywhere. You know this!”

“Even so!” Bonnefoy’s voice shakes with emotion. “We have a patient! So we save him!” 

“Bon,” you call out to him again. You watch his hands shake as he tries to administer the drug. The rattle is so bad that he must pause his attempt. Jones sobs earnestly and pounds at the dirt with weakened fists. Bonefoy swears loudly and squeezes his knee hard.

“Two have died for this man! We can’t let their deaths be for nothing!” 

You say nothing as you take the needle from Bonnefoy and administer the drug yourself. The boy heaves in unsteady breaths, but ultimately reacts to the morphia. You squeeze your eyes shut. You do not want to go back to the front. It is hell. You can hear it even from here.

“We are doctors!” Bonnefoy continues, “that means we keep trying, even when it is hopeless, until the end!”

“Bon,” you say quietly, unable to look either him, nor the American in their faces. “We are not doctors.” 

Jones pants heavily. He is too young of a boy. There is blood. He is dying.

Bonnefoy makes a wounded noise, in the back of his throat. There is an unbearable pressure behind your eyes. “Then we’re…” He hesitates. “Then we are soldiers!” 

“I never asked to be!” you cry out finally, tears hot on your face. You think of your mother and father, of your dog - then you think of Chastain.

Even through his stupor, the American recognises your raised voices and whimpers. Bonnefoy grabs your shoulders and turns you to look at him, his face hard and accusatory. “This boy will die without us.” 

“But Chastain…” 

“ _Non!_ We have a sworn duty to our country. This boy is an ally. Shouldn’t he at least be returned to his mother?” 

You open your mouth to retort, but he shakes you hard. “ _Non!”_ He is shouting now, and his fingers dig hard into your shoulders, drawing out more tears. “Shouldn’t he at least be returned to his mother?!” 

“Get off!” You try and shove him off you, but are still weak. 

“ _Non!_ ”

“Get off!” You struggle in Bonnefoy’s hard grip, and after a moment of intense anger, shove your hand towards his face, forcing him to release you. You fall back onto the road with a grunt, then stifle the wretched sob building in your chest. Bonnefoy is shocked, watching you with a wounded, wide-eyed expression.

“Fine,” you grit out as you dust your tunic off. You wish you could wipe the tears off your face, but your hands are filthy with trench mud and death. You sniff loudly, then push yourself up on your knees so you can help Bonnefoy move the American onto the stretcher. “We’ll get him to the dressing station.” 

* * *

It is not yet dark, and still the evening hate goes on like it will have no end. The whistle, howls, and explosions are distant, but not overly so. Everything between you and the field hospitals is still well within range of the German artillery, and though most of the fire is concentrated on decimating the trenches, walking above ground, so close to the front, is hair-raisingly terrifying. 

To get to the next dressing station you must walk along the line for four miles, then dip back into the trench system to the line of support trenches. It is not far on foot, but you have already spent the day slipping across no man’s land, and Jones’ is a body with only two soldiers to bear his weight instead of four. 

Your boots are weighted heavier than normal, and your arms feel like lead as they hang by your sides. You are using ligament, bone, and tendon to bear the weight of Jones instead of muscle, which is now weakly chattering, and hollow. Your hands are stiff around the handles of the stretcher. You are past the point where you were sure you would no longer be able to put one foot in front of another, and still you march.

The same blanket of clouds that has been settled over the front for the past two weeks hangs above you. You pass the time by staring blankly up at the indecisive weather. The clouds roam and roll across the horizon. You wonder what it all means, if there is some hidden message there, if there are answers for you to read - You shake your head and your brain throbs. It’s only the concussion talking.

Bonnefoy leads you where you must go, rarely glancing behind him except to check on the American. You want to be mad at him, but you don’t find the energy. He is your comrade, your friend, your -

Jones does not look good. He is pale and sickly in the faint light. You know he has lost too much blood, and that he needs a transfusion. His only hope is that you move swift enough to get him another ambulance in time, and even then, you’re not sure if he’ll even live through the shock and recovery.

The only things he has going for him are that he seems to naturally cling to life like it were his mother, and that his wounds don’t smell sour. That last thought worries you. How long he’ll stay infection free, you don’t know. With every minute that passes, his likelihood for survival plummets.

You turn your attention to the dazed expression on his face. He is in and out of wakefulness. You’re keeping him on a steady dose of morphia for the journey. Because of the fast pace, neither you nor Bonnefoy can take the time to be particularly careful where you step, and so more often than not, poor Jones is jostled around in the stretcher, bumping against the wooden rails.

Now is one of the moments Jones is awake. He blinks slowly, and when he opens his eyes, he fixes them vaguely on you. He cannot see Bonnefoy, who by virtue of bearing the weight at the front of the stretcher has his back to the boy. 

You wish that he would not look at you. You do not want to remember his face. New recruits always die the easiest. 

Despite your reluctance to engage, Jones speaks to you anyways. You are surprised when jilted and halting French passes through his thin lips. “I know... little french,” He says in a small voice, “from school.”

Pity fills your chest. He is too young of a boy. “Oh, _Oui_?” 

Jones blinks slowly, his eyelids heavy as they try and stick together. He gives a brave smile, and nods. “ _Oui_. My name is… Alfred.” 

He is too young of a boy. He is barely younger than you. “Alfred,” you test out the name, and it fills your mouth innocently. You tell him your name in return, to which he smiles.

He sucks a breath in past his gritted teeth, and holds it before he slowly exhales. “ _Merci... Beaucoup_.”

Shame overtakes you. He is too young of a boy. He is too young of a boy. He is thanking you because he does not know that you, even if it was just for a moment, argued for his death. Even now, you still expect him to die. There is no end to this war. 

“Quiet now. We will take you to safety,” you murmur quietly, attempting to soothe whatever fears or doubts he might hold.

You do not know if he can translate your words properly, but he seems to understand because he smiles warmly, then drifts off once more into oblivion. 

* * *

You expect Alfred to die, and yet still, as you stare at his face and march blindly on behind Bonnefoy, everything in you does not want him to.

“How much farther do you think?” You ask your friend. He has barely spoken a word since the ambulance. 

“Only a couple miles-“ he clears his throat wetly- “We are nearly to the city.” 

The clouds above continue to darken as day turns to night. They darken further as the wind picks up. You can no longer feel your legs and after ignoring the pain in your left shoulder for nearly an hour, your body has given up trying to remind you of your injuries.

Then it begins to rain like ice. 

“Shit!” Bonnefoy swears and ducks his head down once the onslaught hits his face. It is sudden. Overwhelming. The sheer cold genuinely shocks you. Alfred exhales pitifully. 

“We need to cover him!” You tell Bonnefoy as it continues to deluge. 

You and Bonnefoy quickly step to the side, under the slight cover of a tree, and attempt to keep Alfred from the cold. 

You pull off your issued blanket and throw it over the boy. It is still not enough. Dread fills you. It is hopeless and still, you quickly begin dismantling your gear, pulling at the buckles of your belt and dragging your bags over your head until it all drops to the ground. Finally, you unbutton your tunic and pull it off before tossing it over Alfred. 

Now you are freezing. The cotton of your undershirt is soaked through immediately. Your teeth chatter. Bonnefoy throws his tunic over the boy as well, then you both pull your gear back on as quickly as you can. 

You bend down to grab the stretcher, then you both stand in tandem, all at once, balancing him between the two of you. 

The rain is so thorough and complete that it is hard to see. There is water in your eyes, pouring off your helmet and soaking into your skin. The earth beneath you becomes so waterlogged it begins to feel as slick as no man’s land. Your toes squish in your boots.

Bonnefoy nearly slips. The blunder almost brings both you and Alfred down along with him, but he catches himself on his knee and the stretcher with his back. Alfred does not seem to notice, he has gone quiet, and this worries you, but you are soldiers, and so you press on.

* * *

It is when you reach the town that you realize something is wrong with Alfred. Dread sinks like lead to the bottom of your stomach, cold as the rain that pours over your shoulders. You try and catch sight of his face over the mound of fabric thrown over him, and what you see worries you greatly.

“Bon!” you call out to your friend, “he looks worse than he should.”

“What?” You can barely hear his voice over the downpour. It is so loud you cannot tell if the Germans have quit their bombardment. 

“We need to stop! Now!”

He doesn’t respond, but leads you up to the steps of a building. He leans his weight back, then sticks a leg up and kicks the door in with a loud _WHACK!_ It hits the inner wall, and then Bonnefoy stumbles into the building followed by Alfred in the stretcher, and you. 

It is near pitch black outside, and in the building, though it is dry, it is even darker. Bonnefoy runs into something and curses loudly into the night, and you nearly throw yourself off balance attempting to keep yourself from running into Alfred.

With difficulty, you maneuver the boy to a clear space on the floor to set him down. Bonnefoy drops his pack beside Alfred and begins rummaging through it while you turn to close the door and shutter the windows. 

When you return, Bonnefoy has a lightbox out and is opening his medical kit. You pull off the wet mound of fabric sitting on top of Alfred. You busy yourself with hanging up the sopping wet tunics while Bonnefoy checks the boy’s pulse and prods the wound through it’s wrappings. He leans down and sniffs the bandages, then waves you over. 

You kneel on the other side of Alfred. “Does it smell to you?” 

You brace yourself and lean down to sniff. “Like blood. It hasn’t rotted yet.” 

Bonnefoy grabs the lightbox off the ground and shines it on Alfred. The boy is deathly pale, almost an unhealthy yellow. He is sweating and sickly. The thunder and rain sounds like the shelling of the front from a dugout.

You press a hand to his forehead, then his cheeks, then check with the back of your hand and forearm in case your hands are not at temperature. “Bon, he is cold like a corpse.” If he weren’t breathing, you would assume him dead.

Bonnefoy swears, then turns to his pack and pulls out a pair of shears. He cuts away Alfred’s bandages. When he goes to peel them off, the blood makes them stick to the skin of the boy’s stomach. Alfred moans and you quickly move towards his head and shush him. 

As Bonnefoy inspects the stitches, which are red and angry, you pull out your canteen and prop Alfred’s head up. “Wa-ter,” you pronounce carefully in English, then in French insist, “drink it.” 

You hold the canteen up to his lips and pour a conservative amount into his mouth. With difficulty, he swallows. He looks at you gratefully. “More,” you say as you bring the canteen back to his lips. He drinks until you are satisfied. You hand the canteen to Bonnefoy, who then pours it over Alfred’s wounds. The boy jumps and you quickly move to hold his shoulders down while Bonnefoy cleans his wound.

“There’s internal bleeding.” Bonnefoy says. “See here? There is blood pooling inside.” He presses two fingers into bruising above Alfred’s left kidney. 

Alfred’s breathing is shallow and weak. He is miserable to look at. You wipe your hands on your trousers to dry them, only to realize that your trousers are also wet. “He’s going into shock then,” you theorize. 

Bonnefoy makes a frustrated noise and wipes at his face with his wet shirt sleeve. “And the rain is not helping him. He needs to warm up.” 

Alfred moans weakly, then struggles to push himself up on weak arms. “No, friend, stay down.” He tilts himself over onto his side and heaves. When he collapses back onto the stretcher, there is dark blood on his face. 

You share a wretched look with Bonnefoy. His voice is grave. “We have to open him back up.” 

You shake your head. “He’s lost too much blood. We don’t have all the tools.”

You look back at Alfred and see a child. Your heart is breaking. “How can we give up?” Bonnefoy asks, his voice but a rasp over the rainstorm.

You don’t have an answer. You secure the shutters and start a fire while Bonnefoy looks for something to clean his hands with. 

* * *

The rain has stopped. You are out of morphia. 

You would go back to the ambulance, but the surgery is not an operation a person can do alone, and it cannot wait any longer. Bonnefoy explains this in English to Alfred. Alfred moans pitifully in response.

“Quickly now,” you say as you hand Bonnefoy the tools you’d sterilized. Even still, both you and Bonnefoy are all too aware of the issue of a blood transfusion. Without it, Alfred will likely die.

“He’s too weak,” Bonnefoy mutters as he takes them from you, watching Alfred as he continues to cry. He hasn’t stopped but once since you’d entered the house, but he’s strong still, otherwise he wouldn’t have the mind to cling to life so desperately.

Positioned by Alfred’s head, you push him down with a hand on each shoulder, aided by your body weight. Bonnefoy nods, then begins to cut the remaining stitches. This does not prove to be too difficult. Alfred twitches when he removes them, but you hold him firmly down.

When Bonnefoy moves to continue further with the operation, you hear a faint whistle. The color drains from your face. You look up and meet Bonnefoy’s fearful eyes, face pale in recognition. 

An explosion. 

The building shakes, dust falling from the ceiling. 

Alfred jumps. In your dread, you’d slackened your grip on his shoulders and suddenly Alfred is sitting up. “ _Non!_ _Mon Ami_ , please stay still!” Bonnefoy grabs Alfred by the shoulders and presses him back into the stretcher, but the boy struggles hard. “He’s going to bleed out!” 

You nearly dive onto Alfred’s kicking legs to keep him still. You don’t dare look towards his open wound. 

He starts crying then, in English. He sobs and sobs, pleading with you and Bonnefoy. Finally, you scramble up and sit on his legs. “Sh. Sh. Quiet!” you say in English, “Good!” This makes him cry louder. You have exhausted your knowledge of the language. You turn to Bonnefoy. “Bon, tell him it is okay!”

Another shell lands, this one closer. The wall of your building is sprayed with rubble. What are they even aiming for? The damn Germans can’t hit their mark, even when it hasn’t moved an inch for months!

Bonnefoy begins muttering English to the boy, who continues to struggle. There is too much blood. Weak as he is, you’re struggling to hold his legs down, he kicks you off him and you land on your side, in the dirt. 

Your head is spinning and your face grows cold as you fight to keep yourself from getting sick. “Bon!”

Bonnefoy releases Alfred’s arms, then wraps his hands around his face, pinching his nose shut and covering his mouth. Alfred’s eyes go wide as he struggles harder, kicking, and tearing at Bonnefoy’s hands. You leap up and throw yourself over Alfred’s legs to keep him still, frighteningly aware of how close your face is to his bubbling wound. The chance of infection is high. Too high, but he is already dying! He is already dead!

If you were in a hospital, he would not be dying of his wounds. But you’re not, and you know that he’s dying. Alfred’s eyes roll back into his head as he beats Bonnefoy with his fists, then he slumps. Bonnefoy lets go. “I am sorry, Alfred.” 

Quickly you turn Alfred’s wrist over and check for his pulse. It beats meekly. He is still alive. 

Shells begin to fall earnestly on the city and along the frontline. You continue to work regardless, focusing wholly on the boy.

Not for the first time do you find yourself grateful that Bonnefoy was an honest-to-god medical student before this war. You had been a veterinary assistant, Archambault was a pharmacist, Chastain had been a goddamn tailor but Bonnefoy was educated, he went to school for surgery and could name you all of the bones in the human body, even the unimportant ones. 

The air reeks of antiseptic, it mixes with blood and pools on the floor. It stains your knees and soaks into your hands. You pay it no attention. The steady roar of the shelling coming from the front continues. The building rattles. 

Bonnefoy is covered up to the elbow in Alfred’s precious blood, and he is shaking badly as he attempts to sew the boy’s organs shut around the clamp you are holding. You think to offer to take over. You don’t. 

Alfred desperately needs a blood transfusion or all of this will have been for nothing. He is quickly bleeding out.

You hear the low howl of another mortar. Both you and Bonnefoy pause for a moment to brace for the impact, which is frighteningly close. Alfred is once again waking. He chokes on air, then gurgles. You think to put him out of his misery. You don’t. 

Alfred sobs again. 

It is almost cruel to continue.

“Bon…” 

“He’s fine,” Bonnefoy spits out. 

“Bonnefoy,” you say, tired of this.

“He’s fine!” Bonnefoy shouts. He is shaking so badly he has to pull his hand away or risk hurting Alfred worse. In the faint light, you see the pained expression on his face and realize that he is crying. 

The storm worsens. A howling on the wind. Blue eyes. Blue eyes. Your pulse quickens. The hair on your arms stand on end. Your body is screaming for you to run. Animal fear grips you.

“Bonnefoy.” 

He weeps into the night, over Alfred’s opened stomach. 

A howling on the wind. Another mortar. 

You grab the handholds at the feet of the stretcher and attempt to stand. “Bonnefoy!” 

He looks up at you, shell-shocked. “What?” 

A howling on the wind. Fear like ice up your spine. “ _Run_!” 

Bonnefoy rushes to stand, grabbing his end of the stretcher then following you closely as you stumble backwards through the building and out into the night, the howl of a howitzer ringing so loudly in your ears it makes your head hurt. 

You make it across the street just as the building you’d fled from erupts. The world explodes into a molten mound of rubble. Dust and boulders are sent flying. You are thrown to the ground. “Bonnefoy!” There is a great weight bearing down on you, then there is nothing.

* * *

You awake to light coming in from an open window, framed by billowing white curtains. You blink sleepily, then sit up in the bed. The room is unfamiliar and familiar all at once, as if you’ve been here before, but don’t remember. 

The air is sweet, your skin is soft. You don’t find your voice as Bonnefoy pushes the door open and sits beside you on the bed. His hair is long, it curls softly around the shells of his ears and tickles his chin. He looks warmly at you, and takes your hands in his own. What dream is this?

“No matter where or who we are, I will always find you,” he say. His voice is smooth, a sure thing. He stares at you with such confidence and love; tears fill your eyes, relief floods your chest. 

“... Francis…” You have been here before. He has such blue eyes.

He says your name in a saccharine tone. 

“Francis!”

Panic and blind confusion. The image is torn from you as you are torn from the earth. When you are once more thrust into the chaotic night, you gasp for air like you’ve just surfaced from dark and cold water. 

Your hands scramble for purchase on whoever is grabbing you so roughly. You fist whatever fabric is in front of you in your hands and bury yourself closer to the body, pressing your face into a chest and breathing hard. 

Distantly, you register Francis calling your name as he hauls you to your feet and attempts to drag you down the road. Then he stops dead in his tracks.

“ _Merde merde merde_!” 

Bonnefoy abruptly departs, sending you stumbling back onto the ground. You grunt on impact, then throw yourself back to your feet. “Bon,” you groan hoarsley, throat dry.

He is nowhere to be seen. You cough and wipe at your face, it is covered in dust. The shelling continues, the roar growing louder and louder. Then you hear Bonnefoy crying out over the noise. “Live! Goddamn it! Live! Live!” 

You stumble towards his voice, head still swimming. You need to find Bonnefoy. Desperately. Your heart screams at you to find him.

“Live! Live! You have so much life left to live, just breathe goddamn it, boy!”

You find him hunched over Alfred, they are obscured by a large piece of rubble. He is pressing down repeatedly on Alfred’s chest - to simulate a heartbeat, he had once told you. There is a loud explosion beside you, and you are knocked off balance by the force of the blast. You can’t make sense of it, of anything, your head is swimming. Another shell lands. Then two more. It seems the Germans have turned the focus of their bombardment onto the town now. Shrapnel flies past you and embeds itself an inch into solid masonry.

You pick up your pace, shuffling, then limping as fast as you can manage towards Bonnefoy and the boy. You call out to him, but he does not respond. Dirt sprays across the road and pebbles the side of your face. When you finally approach the two, your entire world stops when you realize Alfred is only half a corpse. 

Another shell jolts you, and finally, panic pierces the bubble of your disorientation. “Bon,” you shout, “he’s gone.” 

He shakes his head and continues. “ _Non_! I can save him!” 

The ground shakes under you, death in the skies above. You stumble into Bonnefoy and try to lift him away from the corpse. “He’s gone,” you insist, pulling hard, “we need to go!” 

“How?!” He cries out, then, throwing you off of him and curling over Alfred to continue chest compressions, “How can you tell?! I’m the doctor, I know he’ll live if we just don’t give up-”

“Bonnefoy!” you scream, grabbing the over-the-shoulder straps of his belt and shaking him. He has shell-shock, you know. Cowardice is contagious. 

He freezes like a deer who has suddenly become aware of its death, staring at you with panicked, blue eyes. You will not die here. You will not die here, shell-shock or no. You wind your arm back and slap him hard across the face.

“Half his body’s fucking gone! Leave him for god’s sake!” You dig deep for any strength you have left and drag him towards you. “Let him rest! You’ll get us fucking killed out here if we stay! Pull yourself together, man!” 

“But…” Bonnefoy is dead weight. He cannot seem to tear his eyes away from Alfred. “He’s not dead.” 

Your heart is broken. “He is.” 

“But he can’t be dead, I was just talking to him - In the trenches, this morning.” 

“He’s dead!” 

Bonnefoy looks up at you. 

“I don’t understand…” 

Another shell lands. This is hell. You haul Bonnefoy up to his feet and he stumbles after you while you search for cover. It is a miracle you and him are still alive, but you do not thank the god that has forsaken you.

* * *

The intensity of the firestorm picks up rapidly. It is loud. There is no cover. You are crying earnestly into Bonnefoy’s chest, unable to stop yourself. It is too much. You do not want to die. This brick wall will not save you. 

You think of your mother and your father, of your siblings and your dog, of Chastain’s letter in your pocket, sitting next to your own. You think of Bonnefoy and of the life you wish you had once more, of love and white curtains. 

You scramble to grip his shirt, pressing your nose into it in search of comfort, but it smells too much like antiseptic, blood and filth. You are sobbing. You climb up his lap and knock his helmet off before burying your nose in his wet hair. He shudders and holds you as tight as he can manage, mindlessly terrified and heart broken all the same. 

You wheeze, suck in a panicked breath, cry out until your lungs burn, then breathe again, and the smell of Francis calms you - You don’t know why it calms you but it does. You breathe in the scent and sag against him as he fists the back of your shirt and weeps in response, his face pressed just over your beating, still beating, heart.

You remain like this until the shelling is over, and then after even, as neither of you move to acknowledge the newfound quiet. Inside this building, the firestorm still rages without end.

“... Francis,” you plead weakly, as if simply saying his name will bring you comfort. 

He shudders violently, then murmurs, almost incomprehensible, “Don’t ever leave me, _mon amour. Je t'aime. Je t'aime._ I love you. Please.” 

You run a hand through his flat hair like a lover and cry softly into his neck. “I won’t. Never. Never. _Je t’aime_ , Francis.” You do not know what has overcome you, this emotion welling so strongly in you that you can no longer think better of anything. There is only him and this feeling.

Exhaustion creeps up onto you, then throws itself over you like a lead blanket. Your body quits its trembling and when you close your eyes this last time, you find that they do not want to open again. Francis smooths his hands over your back and draws you closer into his tender embrace. You say nothing as you let yourself finally, finally, rest. 

* * *

You dream of Bonnefoy once more, only the visions stick more clearly in your mind. You’re sure, now, they are real. There is a farmhouse in a field of grass. You send a child out to fetch her _papá_ , who is baking bread in the kitchen. Francis exits with flair and calls out, “ _mon amour_! You needed me?” 

There is a city. It is loud like the battlefield and has bright, colorful lights everywhere you look. You are walking, unbothered, along the street, when someone taps on your shoulder. You look and find no one there. You frown, and when you turn back, Francis is there, in your space with a charming smile. “ _Mon amour_ …” 

There is a market place. You are shoving through the crowds, cradling your basket in front of you when someone knocks shoulders with you. You know his blond hair and blue eyes. “Eh, _pardonne-moi_ -” 

“ _Mon amour_?” You fill in for him. He does not know you and he smiles fondly regardless. 

You have memories of wine you’ve never tasted, of windows with impossible views, of Bonnefoy, who you called ‘Francis’ instead. Of Francis, who has always called you ‘ _mon amour_ ’ instead.

When you close your eyes, there are flashes of a life that is not yours. There are images printed on the backs of your eyelids, of blue skies and bluer eyes. You feel the sun on your back, like you never have before. There are visions of yourself in strange clothes and stranger automobiles, sleeker and smaller than you know them to be. 

You have never been to Paris, and yet you have memories of the Eiffel Tower. You see Bonnefoy more often than not, smiling, laughing, he looks strange without dirt on his face, almost as if he could be at peace. You cannot make sense of anything you see. The visions come and go along with a great, sorrowful, loving, longing you cannot place. 

“Wake up,” commands a voice, thoroughly loved. It sounds like the way brown sugar tastes as it melts on your tongue.

You are in the cradle of fuzzy sleep, though your head begins to ache.

“It’s time. Wake up.” This is a wake up call that is leagues better than Prince Archie’s. Your eyelids flutter, but remain closed. You are reluctant to face what you wish was not reality.

The events of yesterday seem impossible. What is more real are your dreams of the countryside, of a life you no longer remember, of Bonnefoy, of Francis. You do not have enough energy to feel ashamed of your thoughts - you want him back with all your heart, to take selfishly his love and hide in his embrace. You wish with everything you have to revel in the peace of the world, under clear blue skies, to watch idly as white curtains billow in a fresh breeze.

When you open your eyes finally, it is to the same unrestful clouds hanging under a still-dark sky. You have always looked to the sky for answers, for an explanation from god for what he’s done to this world, but these clouds that hang over the western front… They hold no reason nor emotion, just a grey reality - one you find yourself wishing to avoid. You rub your head and sit up off the mud, your entire body protesting loudly.

“What time is it?” 

Bonnefoy is not looking at you, his eyes focused staunchly on the road. “I don’t know, but if we don’t start moving, we will die from the cold.” 

You search for what remains of Alfred and bury him in the ruins of a cemetery. You doubt, however, that he will stay in the ground for long. There are coffins buried years prior now strewn about, open to the elements with silent skeletons inside, searching for answers in the clouds as well.

When Bonnefoy looks over the letter left in the American’s left breast pocket, he weeps silently over his shallow grave, then leaves the boy to rest with the utterance of a quiet promise that you can’t bear to translate.

Briefly, you search for your bags and wet tunics, but find that they are buried completely. Your hair sticks to your forehead, your heavy clothes hang off your body, and your teeth chatter in the freezing night. You are miserable without the tunics, but cannot hope to recover them with only your hands. A small voice at the back of your head begins muttering about pneumonia, but you ignore it for now.

When you’re done in the town, you both limp back down the road to the overturned ambulance and bury the ambulance driver, the soldier with the head wound, and Chastain, but not before stripping them of their tunics and gear. You are grateful for the added warmth.

You close your eyes and kneel at the foot of your old friend’s grave. He is laid to rest under a chestnut tree. It rustles in the wind as the sun rises behind the clouds. The sound brings no peace, no memories of summer or of home. 

You close your eyes and try to picture it, the river bank, the chestnut trees, Joseph Chastain’s ruddy, serene, face as he marvels at the world, but you cannot hold the image in your head. 

You squeeze your eyes shut and try harder to grasp the memory, to keep it at the front of your mind, but it falls through your fingers like smoke. The only memories you are able to drag to and keep at the surface are of the front, of mud and rain and sour, dark blood. Chastain is gone, never a child, but a soldier forever unknowing of his sudden end.

The morning bombardment is short, punctual, and then it is silent in that tense way it always is near the front - the earth is perpetually waiting to be churned up, destroyed. You say your goodbyes, then turn towards the trenches, and begin to make your way back.

Bonnefoy lets out a long breath. It fogs in the air around you, and then it is taken by the wind. You rub your hands together and blow into them, hoping for some warmth. You quiet the voice in the back of your mind that worries of exposure, of fevers, pneumonia and the flu. Then Bonnefoy inhales sharply. 

“There,” he says, his voice cracking from disuse. He has barely said a word since he first woke you this morning. “On the horizon.” He points north, towards your home, and you follow his finger with your eyes.

“What is it?” You crane your neck, but your view is obstructed by dark, shimmering trees. 

“Blue skies,” he says numbly. His eyes are sad, his face is devoid of serious emotion. He is a ghost of a man, his mind dead in the shelling. He drops his arm and mumbles what sounds like a sorrowful prayer under his breath. 

You see it too, then; the edge of the clouds, and under them, it is the same color as your uniform: Horizon blue. A sure sign of good luck; The clouds have finally broken, though you feel no true relief.

Your limbs are chilled to the bone, your eyes are strained and your breath is hot.

Hope is an emotion you are estranged to. It attempts to work its way through your mind, but is numbed by exhaustion and grief. It holds no power in the face of Chastain’s inadequate grave, of hours spent in the night crying your heart out to a man you’re not sure you truly know. Nothing in this world has meaning so long as children continue to die, and you continue to be able to do nothing to stop it.

You don’t mean to say anything in response, but without thinking, you find yourself watching the profile of Bonnefoy’s face and muttering, “maybe soon,” regardless of the dark storm brewing in your heart. 

Neither of you acknowledge the words for fear of having them taken once more. You think of farmhouses and cafes and of a kiss at the top of the Eiffel Tower. 

Is there such a thing as a world without war?

You inhale deeply, and for just a moment, as sunbeams peel across the grey expanse of the battlefield, you allow yourself to search for peace on the frontlines.

A bird chirrups a little song, the chestnut trees rustle in the wind, and Francis turns to you - with his lovely, haunting, horizon blue eyes - and gives you a look that makes your bones settle like the beams of an old house. A farmhouse in a field.

Maybe soon.

**Author's Note:**

> Me: and they were soulmates  
> You: Oh my god they were soulmates.
> 
> This fic obviously isn’t entirely historically accurate. For one, I’m not entirely sure where the line between stretcher bearers and field medics was drawn in WW1. As far as I could tell, there weren’t really any field medics in the beginning of the war, but the need for them ‘quickly became apparent’. There were definitely stretcher bearers, though. That being said, I just really enjoyed the idea of Francis being a medic bc I feel like he’s intelligent and has such a big heart - what better way to make him stressed and sad.
> 
> As for medical inaccuracies; From what I understand, chest compressions weren’t a thing until after WW2, but the first recorded use of chest compressions was late 1800s, so my reasoning here is that Francis was studying to be a surgeon and was close to his professor, who believed the theory and spoke of it with Francis, who then became desperate to save Alfred’s life. 
> 
> Bathelémont is an actual French Town where the first American troops saw action on the western front. The ‘dawn raid’, though, is not based on any real battle.
> 
> Archambault means ‘Bold Prince’, hence the nickname ‘Prince Archie’
> 
> Chastain means ‘Chestnut Tree’, a family name potentially given to someone who lives near a grove of chestnut trees.
> 
> This work was heavily inspired by both the movie ‘1917’, directed by Sam Mendes, and the book ‘All Quiet On The Western Front’ by Erich Maria Remarque, which follows four 19 year-old boys during WWI who’s entire class joins the German army at the insistence of their headmaster. They soon learn that war is not at all like they were told it would be, and struggle to come to terms with their supposed adulthood. It is haunting, and my favourite book. If you like one of these works, I promise you you’ll like the other, and I will recommend to anyone that they read ‘All Quiet On The Western Front’ till my dying breath. 
> 
> This work was Beta’d by @Peachprinx, and @Havecourage-Darling on Tumblr.
> 
> Thank you for reading :)


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